


I Promessi Sposi

by richmahogany



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post-Series, it's Harold and Grace forever in my book, not fixing anything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-15
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-08-08 22:25:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7776034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/richmahogany/pseuds/richmahogany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After it's all over, Harold can finally return to Grace. But how do you come back from the dead?</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Promessi Sposi

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't actually seen Season 5 (who knows when they're gonna show it in my country, probably next year or something), but I did the equivalent of turning to the last page of the book and had a little peek at how it all ends. I was inspired by that to write this story, and I didn't want to wait, so if it doesn't match exactly what went on in the series, that's why. Oh, and I've never been to Rome either.  
> Title taken from the 19th century novel by Alessandro Manzoni ("The Betrothed").

As the plane touched down at Fiumicino, it raised a curtain of fine spray from the wet tarmac. Rome today was enveloped in gray cloud and drizzle, but Harold didn’t care about the weather. If it had been 80 degrees and sunshine, he still would have felt a chill. The truth was, Harold was afraid. Afraid of what he had come to do, afraid of his own decision and at the same time afraid that he might not be able to go through with it. He had come to Rome to do what he had vowed never to do: to return to Grace.

The war of the AIs was over. Samaritan and the Machine had annihilated each other, but one of them, his creation, had been reborn once again. But things were different now. The team had changed, by necessity, and the losses were very hard for Harold to bear. John had always said that he didn’t want to do the work without Harold. Now Harold found that he didn’t want to go on without John. He didn’t have to. Others had taken up the mantle, and the numbers were no longer Harold’s concern. He was free. Once he realized that the threat to his and Grace’s existence had lifted, the thought of returning to her had become inescapable. But could he do it? He had never stopped loving Grace, and he knew that he wanted it, but was it fair to her? He hurt her so much by letting her think he was dead – wouldn’t it hurt her even more to realize that it had all been a lie?

The plane had moved into its parking position, the doors opened and the passengers started shuffling towards the exit. Harold stayed in his seat until almost everybody else had left. He didn’t fancy being jostled in the crowded aisles, and the cold lump sitting in his stomach made it even more difficult to move than usual. Eventually he had to get out, though, and so he put his jacket on and made his way into the airport building. It took quite a while to get through immigration, but there was no difficulty. He was still travelling as Harold Whistler, because that identity was the most detailed and up to date. Perhaps he would have to go back to being Harold Martin now? He pushed the thought away. He was speculating ahead of his data, and it didn’t matter anyway.

His suitcase took its time, and the long flight hadn’t done his back any good, so when his case finally came into view, he was in a lot of pain. Fortunately he was travelling light, and even though he wasn’t nearly as rich as he had once been, he had enough money for luxuries like a cab to his accommodation. One of the last things he had done before severing ties with his life of the past few years was to recover some of the money he had lost access to when Samaritan had uncovered all his aliases. He was no billionaire anymore, but he was quite wealthy all the same. He certainly would have had enough money for a nice hotel as well, but he had chosen a small _pensione_ in Vatican City. He felt a strong desire to be as inconspicuous as possible.

After he’d checked in and been shown to his room, he kept himself busy with unpacking his suitcase, trying out the bathroom, changing his shirt, opening the window and looking out. But soon the purpose of his journey could no longer be ignored. He sat down and tried to figure out his next steps. Since Grace had left New York, he hadn’t been monitoring her as closely as before, but still he knew where she lived, what her routine consisted of and what her favorite places were. He also knew that she wasn’t in a new relationship, and there was no man in her life with the potential of becoming more than a friend. If she had moved on, if she had found someone new, he wouldn’t have come here at all. But even if that was no obstacle to his return to her, how could he possibly approach her? Should he wait for her as she came home from work? Arrange an encounter on the street somewhere? But maybe that would upset her too much, even frighten her. He would have to find a way to lessen the shock. Perhaps a letter would be better. It would take some of the suddenness away. But if he didn’t appear in person, would she even believe the letter, or would she dismiss it as somebody’s cruel joke? He agonized over the possibilities and couldn’t come to a decision. He still wasn’t sure whether the whole thing wasn’t a fool’s errand, and it would have been better to stay away.

Outside it was growing dark, and he was still turning everything over in his head. It had been hours since his last meal, but if anything the lump in his stomach had grown, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to eat anything. Eventually he took a deep breath and determined that any decision would have to wait until tomorrow. He got up, changed into his pajamas, brushed his teeth and lay down on the bed. But, rather predictably, sleep wouldn’t come. He lay completely still, but the same thoughts as before were racing through his mind, round and round, keeping him awake. Every hour or so he would look at the clock, sigh and look back towards the ceiling.

He listened. In the tree outside his window a nightingale was singing. He had heard it earlier in the day, but it had been silent for some time. Now it had started up again. There were no nightingales in America, but he had heard them during his previous visits to Europe and recognized the song. It was probably the most beautiful birdsong he had ever heard. So melancholy, so very sad. The flawless notes dropped like molten glass into a perfectly still pond, creating ripples that reverberated in his heart until his agony reached such a pitch that he turned round, buried his face in the pillow and finally cried himself to sleep.

 

***

 

Grace stood up with a sigh, took her bag and began to pack her things. It was twenty minutes before her working day was officially over, but she often stayed longer, and no one would say anything if she left a bit early today. She just couldn’t concentrate. No matter how hard she tried to focus on the task at hand, her mind strayed away, and always to the same subject: Harold. She didn’t know why. Normally he wasn’t on her mind that much. Of course, she thought of Harold almost every day, but those were brief moments of fond reminiscence, when she saw something that Harold would have liked, or heard something that would have interested or amused him. He never was very far from her thoughts, but he wasn’t on her mind constantly. Except today he was.

It had been five years since she lost Harold. At first she had grieved terribly, not knowing how she could possibly go on without him. But over time her mind had entered calmer waters. She had taken her grief, given it a home in a corner of her heart and prepared to live with its presence for the rest of her days. She hadn’t “gotten over it” or “moved on”. Her friends had advised her that after all this time maybe she was ready to love again. She certainly deserved to be loved by somebody, they said. But she knew she couldn’t. There would never be anyone like Harold, and she would always compare any new lover to him, which wouldn’t be fair on any man. Some of the friends who urged her to move on even told her “it’s what Harold would have wanted”, but they were wrong. She knew what Harold had wanted, and that was always to be with her. And so, if he couldn’t be there in person, at least he would be there in spirit. As long as she carried his memory in her heart, he wouldn’t be truly dead.

She never forgot him, and she never stopped loving him, but that didn’t mean that she couldn’t think of anything else. But today she couldn’t, even though there was no obvious reason. It wasn’t the anniversary of his death, or of their engagement (so close together!), or his birthday, or her birthday, or any of the other special days that were still a bit harder for her to get through. Today was an ordinary weekday, and yet the memory of Harold crowded out every other thought and made concentrating on her work impossible. And so she shrugged, sighed and prepared to go home, resolving to continue tomorrow where she had to leave off.

She walked home, narrowly avoiding a rain shower, opened the front door and picked up her mail. A photocopied leaflet announcing a yard sale in her neighborhood. A phone bill. An invitation to a gallery opening. And one last envelope which made her heart skip a beat. Made of thick, expensive paper, it bore no stamp, no address, nothing but her name on the front. But what had really given her a jolt was the handwriting. It was Harold’s.

No, she corrected herself, it couldn’t be of course. It was just someone’s writing which closely resembled Harold’s. Time to find out what this really was about. She used her key to rip open the envelope and unfolded the sheet of paper that was inside. She almost fainted when she saw it. It _was_ Harold’s handwriting. She knew it so well, she couldn’t be mistaken. She took a shaky breath and shifted her gaze to the bottom of the page. The letter was simply signed “H.”

Her whole body was shaking now. With trembling knees she walked into the living room, sat down and read the letter from the top.

“My dearest Grace,

I know I will upset you terribly with this letter, and I am sorry for it. I have thought long and hard about how best to tell you what I have to say, but there was no way to spare you the heartache and shock, so in the end I took the path that was the easiest for me.

What I have to tell you is this: I am not dead. I was caught up in the Liberty Ferry bombing, but I survived. I know this will be hard to believe, but I let you think that I’d died to protect you. I had realized that my life was being threatened, and moreover, that of anyone close to me. To protect you, I had to keep you as far away from me as possible, and to let you think I was dead seemed the surest way to do so. I am very sorry that I had to hurt you so much, but I did it to safeguard your life. Even so I almost failed to keep you safe, and for that I am very sorry, too.

And now circumstances have changed in ways which I could never have foreseen. The threat to both our lives has been removed permanently. When I learned that, my first thought was to return to you. I never stopped loving you, Grace, and there is nothing I want more than to be with you again. But I know that what I did to you is hard if not impossible to forgive. I realize that you have built a life for yourself without me and might not want to turn that upside down.

But if you can find it in your heart to speak to me, to listen to me just for an hour: I will be in the _Orto Botanico_ by the lake in the Japanese Garden tomorrow from five o’clock in the afternoon. If you can bring yourself to see me there, I promise I will explain everything. I have missed you so much, Grace, if I could see you just one more time – after that I will leave our future in your hands and will abide by whatever you decide.

With love, and in hope,

H.”

For a while Grace just sat there, unable to form a coherent thought. Eventually what she had just read started to sink in. Harold not dead - could it be true? It was possible that he had survived the bombing, but would he really let her think he hadn’t? Suddenly she pushed the letter away from her and covered her face with her hands. It had to be a lie, it was someone playing with her, a cruel game. If Harold was really alive, he would have come to see her. But then…how would she have reacted if he had suddenly appeared in front of her? Screamed? Fainted? Would she have believed it any more than she did now?

She took the letter up again. No, it was just like Harold to put his trust in the written word. Even the most fervent declaration of his love for her had come in a letter. She remembered it well. They had been dating for months. They had slowly progressed from holding hands to kissing to spending the night together. She had often found letters and postcards from Harold in her mailbox – invitations to meet him somewhere, cinema tickets, or just a beautiful picture because he knew she would like it. One day there had been a letter, written on expensive paper, much like this one. It had simply said:

“Grace,

I love you so very much.

Forever yours,

Harold”

What he was too shy to express in front of her, he had entrusted to words written on paper. And he had done the same thing now. If it really was him…

She still couldn’t believe it, it was just so improbable. The letter said that they had both been in danger and that he had pretended to be dead to protect her. But who or what could possibly threaten a computer programmer and a struggling artist? It just didn’t make sense. But then she remembered: she had been abducted after all. There really had been some shadowy group of people who had taken her and used her as a hostage for something, she never knew for what. That had to be what Harold meant when he wrote that he almost failed to keep her safe.

And then another memory from that time came back to her. That detective, or whatever he was – Detective Stills – he had said of Harold that “he loves you”. Not “loved” – “loves”, as if Harold was alive. Had that just been a slip of the tongue from someone who had known Harold, or had that been a subtle message to her? To think that all this time Harold had been so close! For a moment resentment welled up inside her at the unfairness of it all. But then that emotion was replaced by another one. She suddenly felt sorry for Harold. To see her all the time, but not being able to go to her, to be with her – so close, and yet so far – that must have been very hard for Harold. She realized how much he had hurt himself with his decision.

In the early days after losing Harold, part of her had hoped for a miracle that would restore him to her. When that didn’t happen, she resigned herself to living alone. As the letter said, she had built herself a new life without Harold. Especially here, in Italy, where she wasn’t constantly reminded of him by her environment, she felt secure, sure of herself and sometimes even happy. If he really was alive, would she even want him back? It would mean another change of everything, a letting go of everything she knew. It would cast the last few years in a completely new light. It would mean losing the hard-won certainties she clung to every day. It would mean…

Suddenly it felt as if her heart burst into flames. Tears sprang up in her eyes, veiling the writing in front of her. It would mean Harold. As simple as that. And in that instant she knew what she wanted. She desperately wanted this letter to be true. If there really was a chance that she could be reunited with Harold, she would grab it with both hands. Despite of what he had done, despite of what she had experienced, she wanted to be with him. Once she had told Harold that there was nothing he could tell her that would make her love him less. That was still true. She was absolutely certain that whatever Harold had done, she would be able to understand and forgive, simply because Harold would never do anything unforgivable.

Feeling as if a weight had lifted off her, she made her decision. She would go to the Botanic Garden tomorrow. If Harold was there, she would go back to be at his side, where she belonged. If he wasn’t…it would be a bitter disappointment, but she had survived those before, and she would survive again. She finally put the letter down, got up and started going through the motions of making and eating dinner, washing the dishes and preparing to go to bed. Though how she was supposed to sleep tonight she didn’t know.

 

***

 

Harold had said that he would be in the Botanic Garden from five, but in fact he was there at half past three. He had made his way to the Japanese Garden and the lake with the wooden shelter beside it, but realizing it was far too early he had walked into other parts of the gardens. He had strolled in the bamboo forest and among the ferns. He had visited two of the greenhouses and lingered in the shade of the oaks in the Mediterranean wood. But in between he had always returned to the Japanese lake and tried to settle down on a bench under the wooden roof. That was where he was now, looking down the path and nervously straightening his tie. He was wearing a light summer suit, a red patterned tie and a dark blue pocket square. His hat was lying on the bench beside him. He had chosen his clothes with care this morning, although he hadn’t had much choice. He had brought very few items with him. Still, the familiar feeling of the collar around his neck and the long sleeves, far from making him too hot, comforted him.

Grace had sometimes teased him gently about his formal style, and it was true that she had rarely seen him in anything other than a suit and tie. He had been conscious that in her world people dressed far more casually, and once, early in their relationship, he had thought he would adapt himself to that and bought a pair of jeans. Clad in those and a t-shirt, he had stepped in front of the mirror. He still shuddered at the memory. Whoever it was looking back at him, it wasn’t somebody he recognized. And it wasn’t somebody that Grace would recognize either. It simply wasn’t him. He had quickly abandoned the experiment and returned to the clothes in which he felt at home.

For the hundredth time he stepped out onto the path and looked into the distance. People had been walking past all the time, but at the moment he was alone. He turned round, and his heart stopped. There she was, standing on the path a little away from him. She had seen him at the same moment and stopped as well. For a second they just stared at each other. Harold wanted to say something, to go towards her, but he couldn’t move. His mouth was dry and he could hear the blood rushing in his ears. Grace looked at him, eyes wide, very pale. After an eternity she took a couple of halting steps towards him, stretched out her hand and lightly touched his chest.

“It is you,” she whispered, “it is really you!”

Harold still couldn’t say anything, he just nodded. And then she threw herself at him and hugged him tighter than ever before, her face buried on his shoulder. He could feel that she was sobbing, and as he held her, tears were welling up in his eyes as well. This was what he had hoped for, what he had longed for, and it felt so right, he never wanted to let go.

They stood like this for a long time, and when they finally separated, Harold realized that this had been the easy part. Now he would have to explain himself to Grace, and hope she would understand and forgive him. They sat side by side on the bench, close but not touching any longer. Harold took his hat onto his lap and fiddled with the brim. Then he started talking, slowly, hesitantly, always ready to stop and wait if Grace wanted to ask him anything. But she just listened. Even now Harold didn’t tell her everything, but what he told her was the truth. He explained what the machine was, why he had built it, and what had gone wrong after he had handed it over. He tried to convince her how he had been certain that any further contact with Grace would endanger her life, and how in that moment at the field hospital after the bombing he had taken the decision that had changed everything for them. He told her of his mission to save the numbers, and he sketched the rise and fall of Samaritan.

Eventually they had to leave because the Botanic Gardens were closing. Grace had been very quiet throughout Harold’s narration, and it was clear that she needed time to think about what she had heard. After the close embrace of their first encounter, there was now a distance between them, not exactly a coldness, but a wariness, as neither of them knew how the other would react to the new situation.

Harold suggested a restaurant for dinner, and Grace agreed. They made their way into the city center and ate at a small _trattoria_ serving traditional Italian food. They ate almost in silence, only making occasional remarks. Harold was relieved, though, that Grace seemed to be reserved, but relaxed, not tense or upset. He could relax slightly himself, savor the food and enjoy her company. He would take all he could get from her, and already this was so much better than some of the scenarios he had imagined during his sleepless night.

After the meal they strolled through the streets, still mostly silent. But then Grace linked her arm through his as they continued to walk. Harold was suddenly very conscious of his limping gait. Did Grace think he needed the support? Or did she just want to be closer to him? He had told her how he was injured in the blast, but he hadn’t gone into any detail. He knew she must have noticed his impairments, but she hadn’t asked about them, hadn’t made any comment, hadn’t even looked at him differently. You’re overthinking this, Harold, he told himself. She just wants some connection with you, that’s all.

They walked the streets for a while, both occupied with their own thoughts. Occasionally Grace looked at him, smiling, but still not quite opening up to him. He was worried about where it would lead them, but he knew he had to give her time.

When they passed a little cozy-looking bar, they went in and had a coffee. As they sat at the small table opposite each other, Grace finally looked fully at him, smiled and touched his hand.

“Harold,” she said, “I’m happier than I can say that you have come back to me. But you must know, we can’t just pick up again from where we left off. Too much has happened. We both have changed. We are not the same people anymore.”

Harold’s heart beat faster. Was this the beginning of something new, or was this her way of telling him that there was no future for them together?

“You’re right,” he said, his voice trembling slightly. “We can’t pretend that the last few years didn’t happen. I wouldn’t want to do that. I know I have changed. I know you have, too, but you are still the person I fell in love with. What I hoped is not to go back to where we were, but to go forward together. I know that this is what I want more than anything. But do you want it, too?”

“Yes, Harold, I do.”

Harold could feel her grip on his hand tightening. His stomach clenched. Could it be true? Did she really want to be with him still?

“I told you once that nothing you could tell me would make me love you less. That’s still true. I’ve thought about everything you said, everything you told me you’d done, and there’s nothing, absolutely nothing, that could turn me away from you. I know you are still the person I love. And I want us to be together from now on. I never want to lose you again.”

Harold took her other hand and smiled.

“I’ll never leave you again, I promise,” he said.

They sat there for long minutes, holding hands, and although Grace was crying now, she was smiling as well, a smile so full of love and tenderness for him. He could feel tears pricking at his own eyes.

They finished their coffee in silence, and went back to strolling through the streets of Rome together. They still didn’t speak much, but something between them had changed. There was no distance now, no wariness. They had made the decision to come together again, and their future started here, right now.

They ended up beside the Trevi Fountain. It was late in the evening by now, but there were still a lot of tourists milling around, throwing coins and taking photographs of the illuminated fountain. Harold and Grace stopped and watched for a while.

“It’s not going to be easy, you know,” Grace said.

“No,” Harold agreed, “but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try.”

As an answer, Grace squeezed his arm and gave him a quick kiss. Then she said:

“Wait here.”

Harold watched as she quickly walked down the street and disappeared round a corner. He wondered where she was going. He didn’t wonder if she was coming back. He knew she was.

And she did indeed return a short while later, carrying two small tubs of ice cream. Harold hadn’t know that any _gelaterias_ were open this late at night, but he gratefully accepted the little paper tub Grace handed him with a smile. He loved ice cream, and he loved the fact that she remembered. He took a small spoonful in his mouth. Vanilla, his favorite. Of course, she remembered that, too. He smiled back at her.

“What, no cone?”

“No, he says they distract from the flavor.”

Harold took another tiny spoonful and hummed appreciatively.

“He might have a point.”

They ate, watching the tourists round the fountain. Grace finished first, and then watched Harold eat. He noticed her looking at him and asked:

“What is it?”

“Nothing, I just like to watch you eat ice cream.”

She giggled, and he had to laugh, too. A dog ran up to them, wagging its tail, but turned and ran back when its owner called. This reminded Harold of something.

“There’s something else I haven’t told you,” he said to Grace. “I have a dog now.”

He took out his phone and showed her a photo.

“Oh, he’s gorgeous!” she exclaimed.

“His name is Bear. I couldn’t bring him with me to Italy, of course. A friend is looking after him for now.”

“I never thought of you as a dog person,” Grace said.

"No, I’m not, but this dog is an exception. He’s…he was John’s dog, really, but he spent most of the time with me. I got used to him, and now I miss him when he’s not there.”

“He reminds you of John,” Grace said gently.

Harold had not gone into detail about his friendship with John, but Grace had intuitively realized how important he had been for Harold.

“Yes, he does,” Harold replied. “In a good way, not a sad way.”

Grace took his hand in hers and squeezed.

“I’m sure I’ll like him,” she said.

Harold was so touched by her words that he almost welled up again. In that short sentence she had actually said so much more. It was her confirmation that they would be together again, that she was ready to live with him again, and that she would welcome his dog as well. It was her calm acceptance of the situation that made him feel, even more than it had in the coffee bar, that this was real, that they were going to be a couple again.

He felt he wanted to make some gesture as well, something that would manifest his dream in the real world. He looked at Grace and knew what he wanted to say. Right there, in front of the Trevi fountain, he went down on his knee before her – a considerably more awkward and painful exercise than previously, he ruefully realized. But he wasn’t going to be distracted. He was still holding Grace’s hand, and, as she stared at him, wide-eyed, caught between laughing and crying, he said to her:

“I know I have asked you before, and I know that didn’t end well, but I’m asking you again now: Grace, will you marry me?”

Grace looked at him with so much love in her gaze that it took his breath away.

“Oh Harold!” she whispered, fighting back the tears now.

She pulled him up, put her arms around him and said: “Of course I will.”

And then they kissed, a long, lingering kiss, like Harold had thought he would never experience again. He felt so happy, so light, he would have floated away if he hadn’t held on to Grace’s hand.

“I should have brought a ring,” he said to her.

Grace smiled.

“There’s no need,” she replied and showed him her finger. It bore the engagement ring he had given her five years ago.

“I never stopped wearing it.”

All Harold could do was to pull her close again and kiss her.

A short while later they were sitting on a bench, arms around each other, and Grace resting her head on Harold’s shoulder. Harold felt so content, so happy – it wasn’t just love, it was something else, something that made him feel more restful that he had in a long time. It took him a while to really identify this feeling, but then he realised what it was.

Since he had left his childhood home in Iowa, he had never had a place he could truly call his home. College was only temporary, and while he had settled in New York soon afterwards and never moved anywhere else, his residences all had something preliminary about them. They served a function, but they never had anything to do with Harold’s personality. Of course, he had by that time split himself up into several personas, living parallel lives, and the “real” Harold, if there was such a thing, did not make an appearance.

“Do you even remember your real name?” Nathan had asked him, half joking and half serious. As a matter of fact, Harold did, but it didn’t matter. It was just a name, one of many. All the different roles Harold played, they all had some tiny piece of him, but none of them were him in a fundamental sense. Harold Finch had probably come closest to what a “real” Harold would have been like, but even he wasn’t all that Harold could have been.

Harold had owned and rented many properties around New York, but none of them had been a home to him. Some of them were the homes of his aliases, like the apartment that Norman Burdett used to rent (he had moved out shortly after Carter’s visit). Harold Partridge had even been a tenant at Trump Tower for a while, but fortunately Harold had never been forced to actually set foot in the place. And there was the house that Harold had owned with Grace. That had been a home of sorts, and it was inhabited by a version of Harold that was truer than others. But even then he had only shown part of himself to Grace, and kept his other lives hidden, which made his existence as unsettled as it had been before he met her.

Of all the places he could think of, the library had probably been the closest thing Harold had to a home since his youth. He knew that John spent some time and energy trying to find out where Harold lived, where his home was. Harold could have told him that it was a futile endeavor. He had places where he stayed on a regular basis, and safe houses which he visited occasionally, but none of them would have qualified as his true home. For three years his life had been based at the library, which also held his most treasured material possessions. And then he had lost it all, and any sense of having some sort of home with it.

But now, sitting next to Grace, feeling her leg touching his and the weight of her head on his shoulder, he felt something new, something different. All his aliases had disappeared, all his different personas had become irrelevant, all his parallel lives collapsed into one. Suddenly there was only one Harold, one true self. The tension he had been living under for decades, keeping up appearances on multiple fronts, dropped off him. Life would be so easy from now on. His future looked so simple, so natural, he almost couldn’t believe it was true. He still hadn’t found a place he called home. But whether they would stay in Rome, or go back to New York, or move anywhere in the world, he would always know where he belonged: at Grace’s side. Geographical locations and physical places didn’t matter anymore, Harold knew that from now on there was only one place for him.

He had finally come home.


End file.
